In Which Clara is Kidnapped...Again

I come to my senses to the familiar feeling of being duct-taped to a chair.

It’s better than being tied with rope, I suppose; rope chafes. But duct tape leaves this gunk on my clothes that’s super hard to wash out, so maybe it’s not all that much better.

It’s dark but I can tell the floor is concrete (it’s not wet or earthy) so I’m guessing...warehouse? I can’t see any walls but that makes sense, seeing as I can’t see anything. I’m a little chilly, but I’m still wearing my jacket and shoes so that means this place isn’t heated. Cheapskates.

I wish I grabbed my purple sweater. That one’s warmer than my jean one. And why’d I pick the flats? They have no support and if I have to run through something gross they’re not going to survive. I went cute instead of practical tonight. Dang.

My eyes are adjusting to the darkness but I still don’t see anyone. Do they know I’m awake? Maybe I should scream or something, get their attention. Move things along. Kidnappings always go on forever.

I so do not have time for this. Why couldn’t they have grabbed me tomorrow night, after I turned in my paper? Is that too much to ask?

I roll my head around and shift as much as I can. So should I go scared? Probably. Play along. It’s less work that way.

“Wh--where am I?” I try to make my voice high-pitched but my throat’s all gunky. I cough to clear it and try again: “Hello? What’s happening? Where am I?”

A bright yellow spotlight appears in my eyes, blinding me. How very original of them.

“You think we’ll tell you that, little girl?”

Also very original.

Timid. You’re timid. “Who--who are you? What do you want with me?” I keep my eyes shut and cower as much as I can, shifting away from where the voice is coming from.

A different guy speaks up. “We have a bone to pick with your...Boyscout. He did some not-so nice things to someone we care about, so we thought we’d return the favor.”

Yeah, sure you will, dude.

I open my eyes and try to look around as frantically as possible. The light’s pretty effective in keeping my sight limited, but I can make out shadow-y figures standing a little ways off. I’m pretty sure there’s something next to the spotlight, and there might be a table where they’re standing.

“What are you gonna do to me?” My voice sounds 100% fake, but I hear chuckles. They’re totally eating it up.

“Smile for the camera, sweetheart. You’re on tv.”

Wow. Just...wow. Did he pull his lines from a lost episode of CSI?

A screen comes life in front of me (I guess there is something next to the spotlight), and I see my disheveled self.

Gross.

I look awful. The lighting’s terrible, my hair looks like the home for a nice family of rats, and turns out my shirt kind of clashes with my shoes.

Geez. Maybe it’s good I didn’t make it to the library.

Also, I can’t help but wonder: Why are they showing me the video? The only person who matters in this negotiation is Matt. Are they streaming this to him? How are they powering the tv, anyway? What, they won’t heat up their warehouse, but they will pay for electricity?

I widen my eyes, doe-like.

“Help me!” I say, but it comes out too weak and I wince at my terrible acting. There’re more chuckles though, so I guess the goons are buying it. I’m thinking there are five, give or take. It’s a little hard to tell when they all sound the same, but I can make out the shadows, I think. One starts rambling on about revenge and justice and hypocrisy and I find myself zoning out a bit.

I wonder if they have powers. They’d better. They’d have to be total and complete morons to draw out Matt without any. Well, they’re already morons for thinking they have any shot against him, but kidnapping me without any sort of plan would be freaking ridiculous. I’d feel embarrassed to be rescued from them.

When Dr. Sorcerer got me, now that was something. Of course, I was terrified and wet myself and got burns on my legs and broke my arm and couldn’t turn the lights off for weeks afterwards, but it was also exciting. It was meaningful.

This is just a waste of time.

“Say goodbye to your girlfriend, Mr. Manson.” The screen turns off. Laughter.

That statement jolts me back to the present. Are they serious?

I can’t hold it in any longer.

“Are you kidding me?” The laughter immediately cuts off. My voice has dropped an octave and I’m scowling.

“What did you just say, little girl?” The menace is back on. I don’t care.

“I said, are you bozos kidding me? Matt and I aren’t together. We never were, and we never will be. Why can’t anybody seem to get that in their thick skulls?”

One of the shapes steps into the light. He looks angry.

“I don’t think that’s what you need to be worrying about, lit--”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Little girl.’ Call me names to make me feel insecure. Real mature.” I look him up and down. Bald, older, muscular, tattoos, leather jacket. He’s a walking cliché. “So I’m wondering: do bad cop shows get the thug life right or do you guys just watch too many bad cop shows? You’ve got the empty warehouse, the sucky metal chair, the spotlight, the crap-tastic ‘she’s alive’ video--”

Another one steps out, and he’s holding a gun. He clicks the safety off and points it towards me.

“I think you better shut up now, little girl.”

I roll my eyes at the gun pointed at my head and turn my attention back to Cliché. “So how long did you wait to tell everyone you had me? A few hours? That’s pretty dumb. I mean, I don’t have a lot of friends so it would be a while before anybody noticed I was missing. That means when you sent that video out, they were all, ‘She’s missing? Oh, so she is. Better get on that.’ Build the panic! People are stupider when they’re panicked. Trust me--”

Gun-dude waves his weapon around. I guess he doesn’t like being ignored. “Don’t think I won’t use this,” he tries to growl. It doesn’t work that well.

I sigh world-wearily and try to shrug, but that’s hard to do when you’re duct-taped. “You’re not gonna shoot me. Then there’d be no reason for Matt to show up. I’d be dead.”

Gun-dude gets this weird look on his face, like he’s trying to figure out what I’ve just said. I can tell there’s a lot going on in his upstairs.

I don’t mention that he could probably shoot me in the leg or somewhere else non-vital and be fine. I rather enjoy having the use of all my limbs.

There’s an awkward silence, which is rather funny given that this is a hostage situation.

“So I have this paper due tomorrow,” I say conversationally.

Hey, I haven’t finished it yet, and it’s always helpful to hear other points of view.

“It’s on the internal hierarchy of political organizations. Are they democratic, are they not, blah blah blah. Any of you have any thoughts?”

Thug #3 steps into the light and looms over me. “You making fun of us?”

I pause, like I’m thinking about it.

“Nope,” I answer cheerfully.

He grabs my face, jerking it up towards him.

First, ow. Second, ew. When was the last time he washed his hands?

That’s a bit unfair, I think. I’m sure he washed his hands after going to the bathroom, like any civilized human being.

“I don’t like being made fun of.” He nods towards the other thugs meaningfully. “And I don’t think they do either.”

I’m quivering in my boots, I want to say, but he’s still got my face and while I don’t love it sometimes, I need it for things like eating and talking and attracting people. I stay quiet.

After a few seconds he’s satisfied, so he lets go and turns to Cliché, who looks a little angry and confused. He didn’t appreciate my advice, I suppose.

I ignore their conversation and try to write the paper in my head. After a minute, I give up, because 1) it’s super boring, 2) I don’t remember what’s already in my rough draft,, and 3) it’s hard to keep track of what I’ve already thought of versus what I’m currently thinking.

Kidnappings are the pits. My arms are going numb from being taped to the sides of the chair; it’s a lame non-cushioned fold-up one without armrests. I want to scratch my nose and shake my hair out but I can’t. The only thing I can do is pick at a bit of popcorn stuck in my gums with my tongue, but it won’t come out.

I’m thinking maybe I’ll take up the government’s offer of protection. It seemed silly when they offered, but now it kinda makes sense. Matt’s too busy to always keep an eye on me, and I need to be able to buy a box of tampons without worrying about getting snatched by any blockhead who’s miffed with the Boyscout.

Suddenly, there’s a powerful blast, one that shakes the ground and me and the goons. It’s the kind of thing that happens when someone with super strength kicks through a concrete wall ten feet away from you.

I’m so happy to see that stupid cape that I don’t even care that I’ve been showered in dust. My eyes and lungs do, though, so I’m hacking through the whole exchange:

The Boyscout (morally): “Stand down, criminals. It’s over.”

Cliché (bluffy): “You ruined our friend’s life, so we decided to ruin your girl’s.”

The Boyscout (righteously): “This will only end badly for you. Stand down.”

Cliché (unsure): “We have your girlfriend. Come any closer and I’ll shoot her.”

The Boyscout (lawfully): “Do you really want to add murder to your list of misdeeds? Stand down.”

Cliché (scared now): “There are five of us and one of you. What can you do?”

Turns out, there’s a lot he can do.

Five minutes later, the bozos are being handcuffed, a nice policeman has freed me from the rusty chair and led me outside the warehouse, and the Boyscout’s reporting to the officer one reports to after un-kidnapping somebody.

When they’re done, she walks over and asks me for a statement too.

I point to the morons who’re now in the back of a police truck. “They kidnapped me.” I point to the Boyscout. “He rescued me.”

The officer smiles uncertainly. “Ah, would you mind--”

“Miss Hazeldine has been through enough this evening, I think.” The Boyscout has miraculously appeared next to me. The officer jumps, startled.

“What she needs is a good night’s rest. I’ll see her home safely,” he continues. He turns to the others, who are now by the truck. “Thank you for your hard work, everyone. Good night.”

And with that, he picks me up and springs into the air.

Truth be told, I kind of hate blasting into the sky; the wind always steals my breath and I’m always afraid I’ll swallow a bug one of these days. I have to forgive it this time though, because the wind cleans off a ton of the dust on me from the blast. In seconds we’re high above Neo City, which is alive and bright as ever.

I glare at Matt.“Y’know, you doing stuff like that so does not help the rumor mills.”

“Ah, whatever. They’ll say what they want to say no matter what I do.” Suddenly he’s switched from the Boyscout, untouchable superhero, to Matt, my best friend. (In a cape.)

“I noticed you wore flats today. Does that mean Jean the Cute Librarian was working tonight?”

He’s teasing me a little but it’s nice and I play along. “We totally would have had a real conversation if I hadn’t been nabbed. I’m sure of it.”

“I guess getting kidnapped is as good an excuse as any.”

“It’s a great excuse. And a good party story.”

“I can tell you’re tired. You’re stressing lots of words again.”

“Hey.” I’m serious now. “Thanks for getting me.” I curl a little closer to him.

“Of course, Clara.” For a moment, he’s totally genuine.

Then: “Your mom would kill me if I ever let anything happen to you.”

It’s a cheap joke but I smile at it anyway, closing my eyes and resting my head against his chest; I’m cold and he’s warm, and I know he’ll get me home safe.